Just Like Anything
by Musical Redhead
Summary: BTSS 3.24 "Family quarrels are bitter things. They don't go by any rules. They're not like aches or wounds; they're more like splits in the skin that won't heal because there's not enough material." -F. Scott Fitzgerald
1. Chapter 1

**BTSS 3.24**: Just Like Anything

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing

**A/N**: This is not the fourth story, but we're getting closer. This is a Between the Stories Story.

"_A man's wife has more power over him than the state has." -Ralph Waldo Emerson, __Journals_

**May 22, 2017**

"Marie," Rory Gilmore said, approaching her colleague's desk with a clipboard in hand. "There's a fire over on sixth and Broadway, I need you to go cover it."

"Sure," Marie said, pulling her shoulder length brown hair into a pony tail so she could get down to business. She gathered a few things from her desk and put them in her purse before heading out of the bustling newsroom of the New York _Daily News_.

Rory paused at her desk for a moment to take a sip of the coffee she'd abandoned earlier that day. "Ah man," she complained. "It's cold." She walked to the break room, handing another reporter a marked-up article with instructions to make cuts on her way. After she'd dumped the offending coffee in the sink and refilled her cup, she proceeded back out to the newsroom. "Julie, you used the same quote twice in here." She handed over a sheet of paper, indicating two highlighted lines.

The twenty-something girl looked down at her work. "The second time I rephrased it."

"It's repetitive. Pick one and cut the other. You also need to get rid of three fourths of your adjectives."

"I wanted you to feel like you were there."

"Oh, you took me there. But as titillating as it was, less is more." Rory didn't get to continue, as her cell phone started to vibrate from inside her pocket. She took it out to answer, "Kyle, are you on your way back yet?"

"No," he said in a pouty tone.

"What's the problem?"

"He won't talk to me."

"Who is he?" She handed out a few more articles and stopped to breathe, resting a hand at her waist.

"I think you know."

"You're in the middle of Manhattan and there are hundreds of cops in this city, you could be talking about anyone," she said. "I'm not a mind reader."

"It's that detective," he said. "The one you married. He won't tell me anything. And I've been nothing but patient and polite."

"You should know by now he doesn't respond to that. You have to show him who's boss." Rory clicked the mouse of her computer a few times, pulling up a schedule for the day.

"I kind of feel like he's the boss," Kyle said.

"He isn't. I am."

"Of me. This week."

"No, I'm the boss of him too," she argued. "Every day."

"I'm sure that comes in handy when you need him to pick up his dirty clothes and do the dishes at home."

"He does that stuff without being asked."

Kyle mused, "He's like the perfect man, isn't he?"

Rory gave her head a quick shake. "Don't move," she told him, ending the call and dialing another number.

"DuGrey," Tristan answered after a few rings.

Rory could hear other voices faintly in the background on his end. "Why won't you talk to Kyle?" she asked.

"Because I'm busy working and I don't have time to chat with the press."

"You answered just now."

"I thought you were calling as my wife—in which case it would be in my best interest to answer, and not as the stand-in editor of the metro section."

"Well I am. Although, I'm hoping the former has some sway." She continued, "I need you to give Kyle some information."

"I don't want to talk to Kyle," he complained. "He looks too eager today. I'd rather talk to you. You're prettier."

"You know I'm Jimmy today, which makes Kyle me. So pretend it's me."

There was a pause. "I'd rather not. There are things I do to you that I would not do to Kyle."

"Pretend it's me at work, not me at home."

"But I don't have to do what you tell me at work," he reminded her.

"Says you."

"Says my contract. I think you've let the authority go to your head, boss lady."

"If you don't talk to him now I'll just give him your cell phone number so he can try you later."

"You really shouldn't threaten the police," he deadpanned. "But even if you do share my number, I think Kyle is smart enough not to use it."

"Please give him a quick quote so he can get out of your way and back to the newsroom. I have too many stories to be written and not enough reporters to write them. I need him here." Coyly, she added, "You don't want Jimmy to get back and think I can't handle things when he's on vacation, do you?"

It was silent for a few beats while he thought about it. "You sure do drive a hard bargain, Doll Face," he drawled. "If it'll help you out, I guess I can cooperate. But I have to do my job first or I won't have anything to tell him."

"Fair enough," she said.

"Oh no!" a reporter a few desks down cried out. Rory glanced over. "I was almost finished when my computer crashed. Stupid old machines," he said helplessly.

"Did you save it?" she asked.

"I was going to when I finished."

Rory sighed heavily. "I have to go," she told her husband.

"Okay. I highly encourage you to bring some of this dominatrix attitude home tonight."

"Uh-huh, got to go," she said before she ended the call. She took a quick sip of her hot coffee before heading over to deal with the crises at hand.

NNNNNNN

Greg Jacobs watched two forensic specialists exit the small shop sitting at the end of a tree-lined residential street. Squad cars wrapped around the block, red lights flashing. Pods of uniformed police officers stood around talking within the boundaries of the crime scene. Warily, Greg noticed the lead detective ending a call on his cell before pocketing it.

"If you need something from the DA, then let me know and I'll get it," Jacobs called out impatiently.

Tristan DuGrey turned and looked confused for a second before smirking. He walked over to say, "You know you're a useless middleman to me. Have I told you that lately?"

"Not this week," Jacobs said dryly, shoving his hands in his pockets. "But it's only Monday."

"Who let you in?"

"I did," he answered. "And the uni with the roster added my name."

"Better question, _why_ are you here?" DuGrey asked with only a hint of irritation in his voice as his eyes scanned the personnel who had congregated.

"I ran out of busy work," Jacobs said dryly. "Thought I'd drop by."

"But this is _my_ crime scene, so you're just redundant here," DuGrey said as his partner, Detective Mark Stevenson, made his way over to them.

"Funny, that's what I think every time I prepare your cases for trial." Jacobs added, "I'm just hoping to be half the pain in the ass you are."

Stevenson remarked, "I doubt you'll manage. He sets the bar pretty high."

Changing the subject, DuGrey asked his partner, "Is the medical examiner finished yet?"

"Yeah," Stevenson answered. "She'll be out of the way in a minute." He glanced over at the yellow tape surrounding the parameter and jerked his head toward a young man wearing jeans and a green polo shirt. "I think your fanboy is trying to catch your eye."

Tristan shot the kid a look. "Damn it, Kyle." He addressed his colleagues, "I have to go tell him something or I'm going to get in trouble."

After he was out of earshot, Stevenson remarked, "I always feel better when it isn't the one he's married to. He tends to divulge less."

Thirty seconds later, the blonde detective was on his way back.

"I waited for that?" Kyle called to his back. "I'm telling."

"I'm not afraid of her," DuGrey answered over his shoulder.

When he'd rejoined them, Jacobs asked, "So what do we have today?"

"Blunt force trauma to the head," DuGrey answered. "Evidence strongly suggests there was a struggle. There's a lot of broken glass scattered all over the floor, and the shards have blood."

"Do we have a murder weapon?" Jacobs asked.

"We think so. We'll have a better idea after we run the—." DuGrey's eyes strayed to a spot beyond the crime scene tape and he did a quick double take. His face went blank before two creases formed between his brows.

Noticing the prolonged pause, Stevenson finished the sentence, "After we run the prints." He glanced in the direction DuGrey was focused on and turned back to ask, "Did you see a ghost?"

Jacobs looked over too, but only saw a few spectators—a couple joggers and a man who looked to be in his fifties with jet-black hair wearing jeans and a blazer over a button down shirt. When his eyes fell to the three men, DuGrey snapped his head back and blinked a few times. "What?"

"You look like you saw a ghost," Mark repeated. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, fine," DuGrey answered hastily. But it took him a few seconds before he continued.

When the detective fell silent, finished going over the evidence left at the scene and how they planned to proceed, Jacobs nodded at the building, where a covered body was being wheeled out on a gurney. "Can we go in?"

"Yeah," DuGrey answered, quickly glancing to his left again before heading toward the building.

NNNNNNN

Late that night, Tristan slowly reached the top of the stairs of his building. He walked down the hall and unlocked the apartment door. He was surprised to see Rory in the kitchen, lights ablaze. She was standing at the center island, surrounded by three baking sheets. She looked up from a roll of cookie dough she was slicing when he walked in.

"Hey," she greeted.

"Hi," he answered, just as tired as she sounded. "What are you still doing up?"

"I had to stay at work late—some reporters straggled in with their stories. So I thought I'd make cookies and wait for you to get home."

"Oh." He took one of the finished sugar cookies off one of the baking sheets and took a bite. It was on the crispy side.

"How is it?" she asked.

"Not bad," he answered. "But don't quit your day job. Mrs. Field's won't be calling."

She shot him a grim look. "Are you going to be able to get away for lunch tomorrow?"

He sighed and started to take off his suit jacket. His tie was already loose at his neck. He shook his head and took a seat on one of the barstools across from his wife. "I don't think so. We talked to a few witnesses today, and they gave us some names we'll be looking into."

"That's fine," Rory said as she placed the last two cookies on the baking sheet. "I probably won't be able to get away either."

"We could get breakfast Wednesday morning, if you can swing it."

"It'd have to be early," she said. "I have the staff meeting."

"I won't keep you long then."

She turned her eyes on him, suddenly accusatory. "Was that really all you could tell Kyle today?"

Tristan picked up another cookie. "I told him it was a homicide and an approximate time of death. That's two more facts he had than when he got there. Before that, young Kyle only knew the police were called to that address. It was valuable information, and in return, my cell phone number is safe for another day."

She took a full baking sheet to the hot oven, and before she could continue the conversation, he checked out her grey stretchy pants she had on with a t-shirt. He asked, "What're you wearing?"

"Yoga pants," she answered, returning to the island. "Maureen Dowd does yoga to help deal with the stress of being a journalist."

"Mm, and how's it working out for _you_?"

She blinked. "I like the pants."

He grinned lazily. "That's sounds about right. You could just be really cynical if you want to be more like Maureen Dowd." He stood up, having finished his second cookie. "I'm going to go take a shower."

"All right. I'll be up in a little while."

Tristan walked down the hallway, past the guest room and paused when he got to his desk. He thought about what had startled him at the crime scene earlier that day, and it wasn't the dead body. The sight of the familiar face had made his heart pound in confusion and anger. He tried not to think about it all afternoon—he had work to concentrate on. But now he had time to think, if not fully process what was happening. He opened a drawer of his desk and pulled out a few files. He didn't know what he had to look for, but he was going to find it.

He sat the files in a neat stack on the side of his desk, then continued to the staircase.

**May 24, 2017**

Rory snuggled into the warm cocoon of blankets in bed a couple days later. She turned over and peeked through narrowed lids to find the other side of the bed empty. With a frown, she lifted her head. She squinted over at the digital alarm clock on the nightstand. She had fifteen more minutes before the alarm would sound, but instead of taking advantage of the time in bed, she crawled out from under the covers and headed out of the room to investigate. As she descended the stairs, the aroma of coffee didn't greet her. Tristan usually started the brew when he got up in the morning.

When she reached the first floor, she only had to take a few steps to find her husband sitting at his desk, bent over several documents spread around him.

"What are you doing?" she asked, moving to stand right next to the desk.

He looked up at her and answered, "Just looking through some things." He rolled the chair back enough to allow her space to take a seat in his lap.

She obliged and asked, "Our bank statements?" She lifted a few pages to see what else was on the desk. "And tax returns? Are you looking for something in particular?"

"No," he said shortly, resting a warm hand on her thigh as his other hand returned to the sheet he'd been perusing.

Rory waited, hoping for more explanation, but did not receive any. She prodded, "You just randomly got up extra early to investigate yourself?"

He frowned slightly. "Why'd you say it like that?"

"Like what?'

"Investigate. Why that word choice?"

"I don't know. It's what we do. I was just using familiar terminology." She put her hand on his to stop him from turning to another page. "Hey, what's with you?"

He finally stopped what he was doing and looked back at her. He took his glasses off and sighed. "Fine, I'll tell you," he said. "But you should sit."

The side of her mouth curved. "I am sitting."

"I think I'm being followed."

She blinked. "What?"

Slowly, as though still thinking it through, he said, "I think my dad is having me followed."

She frowned and then opened her mouth to say something, but had to let it sink in before she could form words. "Why would you think that?"

"I saw my dad's PI a couple days ago."

"A couple days?" Rory asked incredulously. "And you're just now mentioning it?"

"I wasn't sure what to think of it at first, but I'll bet you anything he's following me."

"Tristan, do you have any idea how paranoid you sound right now?" She asked, "Are you even sure it was your dad's private investigator? When was the last time you saw him?"

He shrugged. "Years. But I know it was him."

"Just because he's in New York doesn't mean it's about you."

He gave her a withering stare. "It's about me."

"Why would your dad have you followed though?"

"I don't know why he does things. He probably wants to know if I'm in financial ruins." Before she could ask, he said, "Just think about it."

She raised a palm and lifted her shoulder. "I don't even know where to start thinking about it. It's crazy."

"If we're pressed for money, I'll have to go crawling back to him so he'll give me my trust fund. But that means I'll have to play by his rules."

"He has to know you're fine. We aren't in financial ruins," she said. "You cannot think your dad is out to get you, hoping you're a failure at life."

"You've never met him," he grumbled.

"And whose fault is that?"

"Mine, so you're welcome," Tristan said. "Trust me, he's probably waiting to hear about my life of excess. He'd love it if I couldn't live within my means."

"But you do—_we_ do. There's nothing to dig up," Rory insisted. "He isn't going to find anything, and neither are you. Don't you remember what you told me when I first asked you to be my source?"

He looked at her, confusion evident. "I can't remember the details of a conversation from that long ago, I didn't write it down," he said. "Did you?"

"No. But I know what you said. You made it very clear I wouldn't find anything on you because you had nothing to hide. And beyond an unmentioned law degree, you were right. Has anything changed since then?"

He was silent for a couple beats before answering, "No."

"Then please stop worrying about this. I think you're overreacting. There's a perfectly good chance this is nothing."

He shook his head a little, looking back down to his desk.

She watched him for a minute, hoping he'd let this go, but knowing he'd probably persist. She put a hand on his shoulder for leverage and stood back up. "I'm going to go start some coffee—for the ride."

"Go on up, I'll make it," he told her.

She grimly surveyed him before heading up the stairs to get ready for the day.

NNNNNNN

"Okay," Rory said later, looking down at her opened day planner. "I'm probably going to get home relatively late the rest of this week. I never realize how much Jimmy does around the office until I have to deal with all his responsibilities—not that I ever thought he didn't work hard. I just only see snippets of all he does." She glanced at the line drawn through the days she would be fulfilling the duties of editor, and then looked back across the table to Tristan. "And I assume you'll be working late for another day or two."

He nodded and took a drink of coffee. "Yeah. We're still running background checks and talking to some people," he said. "And that's an official statement, so Kyle doesn't even have to leave the newsroom if you need him for something else." He picked up his fork to stab his last piece of sausage and dragged it through the syrup from his pancakes before he ate it.

"There isn't any more information you can give me?" she asked with her best pleading eyes. "It doesn't have to be on the record. I can work with a lead, if you just give me one." She closed her planner and stuck it in her purse.

"It isn't your story though, it's Kyle's," he reminded her. "And you shouldn't do his work for him. He won't learn."

"This is journalism. You take your leads from wherever you can get them," she said. "And he's learned plenty from me. I practically taught him everything he knows."

Tristan raised a brow in interest.

"Okay, maybe he learned some stuff in school. And from Jimmy. But I've tried to teach him everything _I_ know. I take my job as mentor very seriously." She cradled her cup of coffee and took a sip.

"So you told him to do anything to get a source to talk?"

"Yup," she said. "Up to and including marriage." She checked her watch and put her cup down. "Time for me to get this meeting started. Are you sure you're going to be okay today?" she asked meaningfully. She stood, put on her jacket, and then her cross body messenger bag.

He nodded. "I'll be fine."

"Promise?"

He held out his pinky and smiled tightly.

She stepped over to his side and hooked her little finger with his and leaned over to give him a kiss. "All right. I'll see you when I see you," she said before heading out of the diner.

Unlike Rory, Tristan did not have a staff meeting to get to, and he was within walking distance from the precinct. Ordinarily, he'd go on over to get a head start on the day, especially when he was at the beginning of a new case. But today he did not. Instead, he scanned the diner, which only had a few other patrons sitting in booths before he took his cup over to the counter and had a seat, accepting a refill from the waitress and paying the bill.

After a few minutes, the bell above the door jingled and a man sat down on the next stool. When the waitress approached, he placed his breakfast order. He had a dark head of hair and was casually dressed. There was a gun tucked under his jacket, and Tristan didn't have to ask to know the man had his right to carry a concealed weapon.

Addressing Tristan amiably, he said, "It's been a long time, how've you been?"

Still looking forward, Tristan answered, "Fine up until now. I thought you might be lurking around." He casually drank some of his coffee.

"Hey now, I don't lurk," his father's PI, Lawrence, said. "I observe from a distance. But I don't need to tell _you_ that."

"Nope."

"Congratulations are in order. I heard you got married."

"Heard? Right now I'd believe it if you were there," Tristan said sardonically. "Have you found anything good to report back to the boss?"

"No, not yet. But it's pretty early."

"I'll save you some time. You aren't going to find anything."

There was a pause, then, "Why do you think I'm here?"

"You're on the job. And I'm it."

The older man looked down at his napkin, then to Tristan. "But to what end?" he asked, in what Tristan took as confirmation of his suspicions. "You lead a fairly boring life."

"So you admit you're following me."

"Out in the open?" Lawrence asked rhetorically. "I'm here to investigate something, like usual. New York is just a change of scenery." He continued, "Come on Tristan, let's not be weird. I'm doing my job here. You know I don't have a problem with you."

"Your employer does. It's not acceptable for me to do the same thing as you."

"You really think he hasn't gotten over that by now?"

"He still hasn't gotten what he wants, so no, I don't think he has."

Lawrence mused, "What does Harrison want though, that is the question." He shook his head. "I'm not sure myself, these days."

"That's easy," Tristan said. "He wants to control me." When the waitress returned with the coffee pot and a cup for Lawrence, Tristan waved away the refill offer. "But I won't let him."

"Do you ever find it funny that two middlemen can't communicate without a middleman?"

"I laugh about it all the time," he said flatly before sliding off the barstool to stand. "I need to get to work."

Lawrence turned toward him. "I think your instincts are a little off, but mine might be too, lately. Maybe you can help me with something. Do you know anyone who wears Dolce & Gabanna's perfume for women?"

Tristan shrugged and shook his head. "No." But when he got to the door he paused and turned back. "Wait, yes. Mom."

Lawrence nodded once. "I thought so. " Then he shook his head. "This cannot be good."

"What, did she kill someone?"

"No. But give it time."

NNNNNNN

Later that evening, Rory was at home. She had the house to herself, so she took the time to look at her husband's desk in disapproval. He'd straightened up the papers he'd been looking at that morning, but he hadn't put it away. She wondered how upset he'd be if she did it for him. She jumped in surprise when her ringtone broke the silence. She went over to her own desk and picked up her phone. "Hello?"

"Is it a bad time?" her mother asked. "You're frowning."

"How can you tell?"

"I can hear it in your voice. It's like your concentration voice, but darker. How are things?"

"Weird," Rory answered. "Tristan went off the deep end. He thinks his dad is having him followed."

"Why?"

"Because he saw his dad's PI the other day." Rory added, "If he wasn't convinced it was about him, he'd tell you it's only circumstantial."

"Mm, maybe."

"What do you mean, maybe?" Rory asked as she sank down into her swivel chair. "You don't think he's right, do you?"

"Well, he could be. Tristan's the one who knows his dad, not me. But I know from experience this happens sometimes."

"Grandpa never had you followed," Rory said impatiently.

"That we know of," Lorelai said. "I wasn't talking about him though. I was talking about Floyd Stiles. He had his private investigator follow Jason. It's how he found out we were dating."

"Tristan's dad doesn't need his PI for that stuff, Janlen probably tells him."

"Floyd wasn't following Jason for personal information though, that was extra. It was business," Lorelai explained. "He sued his own son and left him with nothing."

"This is different," Rory argued. "Tristan isn't in business competition with his dad."

"But isn't that the point? He refused. It probably still stings."

"If the contingent trust didn't work years ago, his dad has to know it still doesn't matter."

"Never underestimate how long a person can hold a grudge."

"But they've stayed out of each other's way for years," she continued to argue. "Their feud is silent—like they've both accepted their mutual inability to bend."

"Okay, whatever you say," Lorelai said lightly.

Rory crossed her free arm over her midsection and paused in thought. She sighed heavily. "You still think Tristan is right."

"These people are vindictive, and they can't stand it when things don't go their way," Lorelai said. "So, yes. I still think it's possible."

"You were probably the wrong person to talk to about this," Rory said dryly. "You two share the same paranoid thoughts. You should have seen him on the ride to breakfast this morning. I lost count of how many times he glanced out his rearview mirror."

"Hey, maybe we're wrong," Lorelai conceded. "Maybe his dad is completely innocent, but I have some advice, either way. Don't call Tristan crazy to his face on this one. He could be right."

"I hate it when that happens."

They were both silent for a moment, then Lorelai asked, "How much is he worth, anyway?"

"I don't know," Rory said, offended. "I never asked him."

"Always ask," Lorelai said. "Have I taught you nothing?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Title**: Just Like Anything

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing.

"_Your son at five is your master, at ten your slave, at fifteen your double, and after that, your friend or your foe, depending on his bringing up." -Author Unknown_

**June 6, 2017**

Rory was at her desk in the newsroom, highlighting notes to prepare her article when her cell phone rang from her top desk drawer. She pulled it out absently and answered, "Hello?"

"Rory, hello," the caller said. "It's Eileen."

She stopped what she was doing and sat up straighter. "Oh, hi." She put her highlighter down and gave Tristan's mother her full attention.

"George is out of the country so I thought it would be fun to come to New York City for a few days," Eileen explained. "I was wondering if you'd like to go out for lunch today."

"Oh, well," Rory started, uneasy. "I'm not sure. I'm at work and don't have my article finished."

"Surely you could get away for lunch though."

"Uh, okay. I guess I can leave if it's just for a while," Rory said, in what was a huge understatement. If she clocked all her hours spent in and outside the newsroom, the ratio would likely be disproportionate. Any outing could always be passed off as field work.

"Wonderful."

"Should I call Tristan to see if he can come too?"

"You could," Eileen said. "But he's probably busy, and I was hoping it could be just us girls. We don't need men around to have a good time of our own."

"All right, that could be fun."

Eileen said, "I know the perfect place in Midtown. Where would you like to meet?"

Rory named a location and on one thirty before she ended the call. Then she quickly dialed Tristan. "Pick up, pick up, pick up," she said quietly, tapping her desk nervously with her fingers. But her husband didn't obey her whispered command. When his voicemail kicked in, she hung up and sat the phone down. She gawked around the newsroom and waved her longtime editor, James West, over.

"Finished already?" he asked when he'd reached her. "I thought you'd still be dissecting your notes for another hour."

"No, I'll get my article in for tomorrow's paper, I promise," she said. "But my mother-in-law just asked me to have lunch with her, so I have to go. Now." She looked down at herself. "And I need to change first."

James furrowed his brows. "What's wrong with what you have on?"

"I need to put on a skirt—or a sundress. Something better than this," she answered desperately. "I can't have lunch with her in my work clothes. I will not fall short of whatever expectations she has for me."

"Is your mother-in-law the queen of England?" James asked dryly. "Just when I forget you're from Connecticut, something like this reminds me."

"Is it okay if I go?"

"I'm not really used to you asking to leave," he answered. "Go on. Make sure your article is in by the end of the day."

"I will, thank you," she said, already packing up her notes and shoving them into her bag.

NNNNNNN

Meanwhile, Mark was standing against the wall of the interrogation room, watching the suspect who sat at the table. The man was in his late twenties and he kept his eyes down, pretending the detective wasn't there. Tristan walked in then, and took a seat across from the suspect. He took his time looking through a file containing evidence, making their suspect wait.

"Jack Rendell," he finally said, looking across the table. "You're here to tell your side of the story from the day Michael Graff was murdered."

"I think I should maybe get a lawyer," Jack said nervously.

"Maybe," Tristan vaguely agreed. "I want you to get a deal. But first, you're going to have to talk. Where were you March twenty-second around eleven thirty?"

"At home, watching TV. And I don't even know who Mike Graff is."

"We already talked to everyone in your neighborhood, Jack. You were one of his best friends." Tristan sat back and let the silence stretch until Jack was uncomfortable enough to fill it.

Jack's eyes darted around the room, looking for a way out, or for Mark to come to his defense.

"We know he knocked up your sister and had plans to skip town," Tristan prodded. "A real man wouldn't run away like that. Just tell us what happened at his shop. Tell me your side of the story."

"Well," Jack started. "I was going to wait to see where he ended up." He looked at the detectives apprehensively. "Don't you think I should get a lawyer? One can be provided, right?"

Tristan shrugged, indifferent. "Mm-hmm. Did you know where Mike was going?"

The door of the interrogation room suddenly opened and an older man in a suit walked in. Tristan didn't even look up at the intrusion.

The man appeared to be in his fifties and carried himself confidently. "You have to say the words, I want a lawyer," he said, slightly impatient. "Or he isn't going to stop."

Tristan inhaled sharply at the sound of the man's voice. His face paled and he clenched his jaw. The man, who was apparently an attorney, sat down next to the suspect. He crossed his arms and fixed his steely gaze on the detective.

"Oh." Jack looked at the blonde to say the magic words, "I want a lawyer."

"Very good."

Tristan sat and stared across the table. He seemed to have lost his voice. Mark never saw him clam up like this before. It was just a lawyer, like all the rest. While he did look more accustomed to clients from Fifth Avenue, that wouldn't be a problem for Tristan.

After a few seconds of dumbfounded silence had passed, the lawyer told Tristan, "You can continue with your questions, detective. He's the one with the right to remain silent." He jerked his head toward Jack.

Tristan blinked. Finally, he asked, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I'm a criminal attorney," the man answered slowly. "And you're about to press charges—or at least, the prosecutor is."

"How do you know?" Tristan asked, scowling.

He received a look indicating his ignorance. "What do you think Lawrence was doing in New York?"

"Following me."

"Don't flatter yourself," the older man said with a scoff. "You're not that interesting."

"You can't just come in here and interrupt my interrogation."

The attorney addressed Mark then, "Is this his first day?"

Mark opened his mouth, but was unsure what to say.

The attorney didn't wait for an answer though, and instead quickly glanced around the room in distaste before looking back at Tristan. "Charming working conditions, by the way."

"This room doesn't have a soul," Tristan countered. "You fit right in."

"This interview is over," the attorney said, turning to Jack. "Let's go."

Jack didn't seem to fully comprehend what was happening, and he certainly hadn't called this man to defend him, but he still got up and left the small room. The two detectives followed, Tristan much quicker than Mark.

Jacobs was standing outside the room, watching at the window and listening in.

"I'm defending this man, have you pressed charges yet?" the attorney asked Jacobs.

"Yeah, I just called the DA," the redheaded man answered. "A judge should have an arraignment date in a few hours."

Trying to be the third member of the conversation, Tristan asked, "Did you run out of corporate fraud cases in Hartford and felt like defending a bottom feeder for fun?"

The older man glared at the blonde detective. "Sit down, boy, the adults are talking." He turned his attention back to Jacobs.

Tristan didn't do as he was told, but he also didn't argue as he watched the two men, incredulous. Jacobs looked to Mark and lifted a palm in question. Mark could only shrug as his answer.

"Are all your detectives this unruly? Or is it just the one?"

Jacobs tilted his head, surprised. "Actually—"

"Don't answer that," Tristan cut in.

The attorney smirked. "That's not your line, detective."

"Why don't you go back to your new family and leave me alone, counselor," Tristan suggested.

The man frowned. "New fam—?" He stopped and shook his head. "You're as dramatic as your mother." He glanced around the squad room, unimpressed with what he saw. "I have things to do. I'll see you in court," he said before heading to the exit without a sideways glance at Tristan.

"And I'll see you in hell, counselor," Tristan called out to the retreating man's back. "But I'm not saving you a seat." He was still scowling when he turned back to Stevenson and Jacobs, who both wore the same befuddled expression.

"What the hell was that?" Mark asked. "You know him?"

"Sure," Tristan answered. "He generously provided half my genes."

Both men watched the blonde stalk off to the captain's office and slam the door behind him before turning to each other. It took Jacobs a moment before he could say, "That was the best thing I've ever seen. I hope that guy comes back."

"Not your usual response to defense attorneys," Stevenson commented.

"That wasn't the usual response from DuGrey," Jacobs said, grinning. "What's the deal there, anyway?"

Mark raised his brows and sat on the edge of his desk. "They don't talk much."

"But there's obviously so much love between them," Jacobs said sarcastically. He crossed his arms and glanced over at the captain's door. "So Daddy's a lawyer. And while your partner could be, he chooses not to."

"Mm-hmm. There's a lump sum of money involved if he does, if I understand correctly."

Jacobs cocked a brow. "Oh yeah? Why doesn't he just do it then?"

"I guess he doesn't want to," Mark said with a shrug. "That's his story, anyway."

Jacobs snorted. "I thought you were supposed to be observant."

The detective frowned. "I am."

"Then you should know his actions speak louder than his words."

NNNNNNN

"Emily does have superb taste," Eileen said, looking around Rory and Tristan's living room a second time, having just returned to the first floor. "She did a fine job with your little apartment home."

"Yeah, she did a great job," Rory said in agreement. "And it was all ready for us when we got back from the honeymoon."

A bit stiffly, the regal blonde woman said, "How nice, just after your private wedding."

"Uh, yeah." Rory wasn't sure if she'd said something wrong.

They heard a cell phone ring from Eileen's purse and she pulled it out to check the caller ID. When she saw who it was, she smiled haughtily and answered, "Hello?"

Rory picked up a couple shopping bags from the kitchen island and took to them to the couch under the pretense of not eavesdropping on the one-sided conversation.

"I only received a message informing me you'd be in New York and staying at the Algonquin," Eileen said. "Was I supposed to take that as an invitation?" Upon hearing the answer, she smiled again. "Yes. The concierge and bell hop were very accommodating. I made sure a large tip was billed to you, since you're so worried about how I treat the help." She listened some more and answered, "I've been out with Rory. She's a lovely girl, you should meet her sometime."

Though Rory wasn't trying to listen outright, she couldn't help but grin to herself, pleased by her mother-in-law's approval. She picked up a magazine from the coffee table and pretended to read.

Eileen continued, "She was just showing me their apartment, why?" Then she said, "It's a little early for dinner. What did you plan to do until then?"

Rory glanced over in time to see the blonde woman's lips stretch into a Cheshire cat grin and her eyes glimmered. "I'll be right there," she purred. She ended the call and turned to Rory, still smiling. "I hate to run off, but I have a dinner date."

"Oh, all right," Rory said, putting down the magazine and standing. "I had a good time this afternoon."

"Yes, it was delightful. We have to do it again sometime." Eileen headed for the door. "Perhaps we'll invite Tristan next time. Tell him hello for me, won't you?"

"Sure," Rory said, escorting the woman to the door.

Checking the time on the microwave, she exclaimed, "Oh my gosh." She quickly got her messenger bag from the couch and took it back to her desk. She had an hour to write and edit her article before Jimmy would be calling, ready to get out of the newsroom for the night. She worked diligently until she was finished, and e-mailed the attachment to her editor. She texted him as well, informing him of its completion.

Finally able to relax, she went back to the living room for the shopping bags and took them upstairs to the bedroom. She dumped them out and went to the closet for hangers. When she heard the front door close downstairs, she called out, "I'm up here."

A minute later, Tristan entered the room—although he looked like something the cat dragged in. He walked over to the vanity and pulled out the chair, turning it to face the room and sitting down.

"Where were you today?" Rory asked as she hung up a new pair of jeans. "I called you hours ago."

"I was a little busy," he answered. He blinked a couple times, possibly seeing her for the first time. "Were you wearing a dress this morning when I left?"

Rory looked down at her floral printed dress. In her haste to finish her work, she hadn't changed. "No I wasn't. Would you like to know why I rushed home in the middle of the day to change?"

"I can tell you have a story, so just to warn you, there's no way your day could possibly have topped mine," he said as he removed his jacket. "But go ahead. Why?"

She stood with her hands on her hips, facing him. "Your mother wanted to have lunch with me. Then she insisted we get facials and go shopping. I never made it back to the newsroom."

Tristan frowned. "What?"

Rory nodded. "Yeah, it took the whole afternoon."

"That's not possible." He shifted his gaze down slightly in thought, eyes narrowed.

She pointed to the closet. "There's a new suit with your name on it that says otherwise."

"They can't both be in New York."

"Both who? What are you talking about?" she asked. "What happened today?"

He looked back up at her. "Dad came to my work today," he answered.

Rory's eyes widened. "What? The precinct?"

Tristan nodded. "He's taking a case I investigated. He just walked into the interrogation room and sat down right in front of me."

"Oh my god. Did you talk to him?"

"Some words were exchanged. But he was only there for business," Tristan said. "Now I know why his PI was tailing me. He was keeping tabs on the case I was working, biding his time until we were ready to press charges." He shook his head. "I can't believe I didn't see this coming."

"But can he really do that?" she asked. "You're related."

Tristan lifted his shoulders. "I'm the lead detective on the case, no one can change that. And the accused has a right to a lawyer."

"So he can?"

"Yup."

Rory dropped to her knees in front of him and placed her hands on his legs. "I'm so sorry you had to deal with this today. And for brushing it off when you saw his PI," she said. "So what does this mean?"

"It means he's going to grill me on the witness stand," Tristan answered.

She propped her elbows on his legs and rested her chin in her palms. Feeling the effects of the facial, she lifted Tristan's hands to her cheeks.

"Your face is really soft," he commented.

"I know. I kind of like it." Then she gasped. "Maybe your mom and dad are conspiring together. She's trying to get us to spend money on luxuries. Then we'll have to file for bankruptcy, like you thought your dad wanted."

"I like the way you think," Tristan said with a nod of approval. "But they hate each other. They shouldn't even be in the same room."

"Hitler didn't like Stalin, but they still joined forces to face their common enemy."

His eyes softened. "You just compared my parents to evil dictators," he said in admiration. "I don't think I've ever loved you more."

She smiled. "Speaking of your parents, I asked Eileen how she was doing, and she said life is good—because while Harrison's wife has to hide Viagra in his food, she's having the best sex of her life."

Tristan's hands flew to his ears and tightly closed his eyes. "Oh my god, shut up! I don't want to know that."

"I didn't want to either."

"You shouldn't have asked how she was."

"It's the polite thing to do."

"It's a rookie mistake." Hurriedly, Tristan said, "Mom makes that stuff up, you know."

"I don't think she was making it up," Rory argued. "She got a phone call and I'm pretty sure I know how she and her date were going to pass the time before dinner."

"I told you to stop," Tristan said, pained. "That isn't what I was talking about. She was lying about Dad."

"The Viagra?"

"Yeah. We don't have that problem. I mean, men in my family, we're fine. We don't need drugs."

Rory stifled a giggle. "Oh, message received," she said. "Anyway, I think she was meeting up with someone other than George tonight. She was in town because he's out of the country."

"Who's George?" Tristan asked.

"Her husband."

"I thought his name was Julian."

"No, she was married to him a couple years ago. She married George last June. We sent them a gift."

"That was nice of us," Tristan said. "What did we send?"

"A toaster," she answered. "The big kind that toasts four slices of bread at a time."

He cringed. "That was probably a bad idea. I'm pretty sure she's used a toaster as a weapon."

"What? How?"

Tristan waved a hand. "Don't worry about it. I think she only hates the one ex-husband enough to resort to bodily harm. She just gets bored with the others."

"Well she's not bored now, that's for sure," Rory said.

"Let's stop talking about my mother the man eater," he said. "At this point, any idiot who falls into her web should know what they're getting into."

**June 9, 2017**

A few days later, the assistant district attorney was sitting in his office. He was reading the paper, when someone came in and took a seat in front of his desk. "Ever heard of knocking, DuGrey?" Greg asked before looking up from his newspaper.

"How did you know it was me?"

"Who else would it be?" he asked rhetorically. "What do you want?"

"To help you. You're going to need me."

Jacobs sighed heavily and put the paper down. "Yeah, like I need a hernia." He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

Tristan looked down at the name plate on the desk as though he didn't know what it said, and looked back up. "Gregory, can I call you Greg?"

"No."

"Fine, Gregory it is. You have to go up against my dad, and I've seen him in court. You need my help."

Bored, the prosecutor closed the pages of the paper. "No I don't. He's just like any other defense lawyer."

"No he isn't," Tristan argued. "He's much better than you." He lifted a box from his lap and sat it on the desk. "I've been looking at my old police reports, trying to find anything he'll use against me."

"What? Why?" Greg asked, watching the deranged cop pull out files.

DuGrey stopped to look up at him. "Because he's going to discredit me."

"You don't know that. His strategy could be self-defense, or he could find someone else who might have done it."

"He took this case with his strategy in mind," DuGrey said. "It's about me. My birthday's coming up, this is probably his idea of a present."

Jacobs rolled his eyes. "That's not dramatic at all."

"You're right, he probably doesn't remember my birthday."

"Do you know what it means if he does discredit you with any past slip ups?" Jacobs asked. He didn't wait for an answer before giving it, "It'll mean he's desperate. And I'll be there listening and objecting if he crosses a line. You've been cross-examined before, you know." He sat back in his chair and shook his head. "I can't believe I have to tell you this, but you are not on trial."

"If you looked at it from my perspective, you might not feel that way."

"I know your life is basically a Gavin DeGraw song, but you need to get a hold of yourself. Your dad is going to make sure we can prove Rendell committed the crime, just like he's supposed to. That's all he can do."

Tristan was silent for a moment. "Fine," he said. "But you have to go through everything and find where I made mistakes on this case. There has to be something—an unreliable witness or one we missed altogether."

"As much as I enjoy seeing your confidence shaken, I do still supervise your work. Even if you don't need me to."

The detective looked at him in surprise. "You finally agree I don't need you."

Greg turned his attention back to the paper on his desk. "You're having a tough week. I'm throwing you a bone."

NNNNNNN

Among a wave of people, Rory walked up to street level from the subway and pulled out her cell phone. As she was walked down the sidewalk, she dialed her husband.

"DuGrey."

"Hey, I'm on my way to interview a guy who's being prosecuted. It's one of your cases," Rory explained. "Kyle wrote the original story, but he was out of the newsroom, so he couldn't fill me in. Is there any extra information you can tell me?"

"Which case is it?"

Rory pulled out a police report bearing the familiar writing of her husband. "Michael Graff, from back in March," she answered. She walked up the stairs to a two story house, sandwiched between a row of identical houses. "I'm interviewing Jack Rendell. I was requested."

"Requested?"

"Yeah."

"Rory," Tristan deadpanned.

"What?" She lifted her hand to press the button, but the door swung open. A vaguely familiar man peered out at her, and she gasped in surprise.

"That's the case my dad took."

"Oh," she said, her eyes wide. "I see. Got to go." She slipped the phone back into her bag and she hesitated a second before sticking out hand to shake the one being offered.

"Harrison DuGrey," the man said.

"Right, I know. I'm Ror—I mean Ve—." She stopped. She didn't use her real name for crime reports, but suddenly felt stupid to use her pseudonym now. Luckily, she didn't have to.

"Yes," her father-in-law said, "I know who you are. Come in," he said, opening the door for her. He led her down a narrow hallway to the back of the house, where a young man was seated at the kitchen table with a few other chairs.

Rory glanced at Harrison and he gestured for her to sit across from the man. He introduced them, only referring to her as a reporter from the _Daily News_, and took one of the other chairs.

She took out her notebook and pen, but stopped to face Harrison before starting the interview. "I'm not sure I'm the right person for this."

"Why not?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Why do you think?" Remembering it wasn't just the two of them in the room, she added, "I wasn't the one to write about the crime when it happened. My colleague, Kyle should be here. He's the one who followed the case."

"I have no interest in Kyle," Harrison said. "I've heard good things about you from a trusted source. I want to see if any of it's true." Then he added, "Unless you don't feel you're professional enough for some reason."

"That's not the problem, I am. I just—"

"Why don't you start the interview?" he said. "If I don't like your style I'll consider Kyle."

She huffed. "Fine." Turning back to Jack, Rory asked, "Can you tell me about yourself?" The man proceeded to tell her where he was from and what his upbringing was like. "And it was your sister who went to the bondsman to post your bail?"

"That's right."

"Does she have anything to do with the murder?"

"Don't answer that," Harrison advised.

She tried another, "What's your relationship to the victim, Michael Graff?"

"Don't answer," he said again.

Rory moved on to her next question. "What were you doing the day Graff died?"

Jack looked to his lawyer, who shook his head.

Frustrated by Harrison stonewalling an interview he asked for, she turned her attention to him. "You're a corporate lawyer from Connecticut," she said. "Is there some reason you randomly chose to take a homicide case in New York?"

"I'm not the one being interviewed."

"It could really add some color to the story, but you're right," she conceded, then turned back to Jack. "Aren't you at all interested in why he swooped in to defend you?"

"Kind of," Jack admitted.

Harrison rolled his eyes a little and stood. "That's enough."

Not surprised, Rory stood and collected her things. She followed her father-in-law back down the hallway. "I guess the saying is true," she said casually. "If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen."

He snorted lightly, as though faintly amused by her accusation.

"No one goes to the press before the trial," she said. "Do you have nothing better to do? What could have possibly been the point of this?"

They reached the door, and he stopped to face her. Apparently ignoring her, he said, "It was nice to finally meet you, Rory." He lowered his gaze to the hand that held her notebook. "My mother's ring suits you well."

"Oh. Thanks," she said with a frown, awkwardly accepting the compliment.

"I had no idea my ex-wife admired it so much until Tristan gave it to you." She crossed her arms hastily, as though to protect herself, or to take his attention away from her hand. Harrison looked back up at her. "She'll get over it," he said before letting her out.

She walked down the stairs, and as she did so, she wondered how he'd know what his ex-wife was thinking as of late. After all, they didn't even get along.

She headed down the sidewalk, back in the direction of the subway station. She hadn't realized how tightly wound she was during the interview until now. Being back outside, it was like a weight had been lifted. She pulled her cell phone out, ready for the numerous missed calls from Tristan. But to her surprise, there weren't any. She dialed him and didn't have to wait long for him to answer.

"How was it?"

"I survived," she said, sitting down at a bench on the sidewalk so as not to lose service by walking to the underground station. "I thought you'd try calling to get me out of it."

"Would it have worked?"

"No, I would have ignored your calls."

"I figured. I thought you could handle him, so I let you," he explained.

"Oh," she said. "That was sweet."

"So how did it go?" he asked again.

She lifted her shoulders and shook her head. "It was just—I don't know. It was an interview, made a little uncomfortable because two of us pretended to be strangers. Except we aren't really. We're related through the person who arrested the defendant."

"Sorry," Tristan offered. "I should have expected him to go through you like that. He's brilliant."

"Go through me?" Rory asked.

"Yeah, get to me through you. Did he let his client bad mouth the police—and therefore me—for all of New York to read?"

"No," she answered. "It was mostly background information about Jack. Your dad didn't even let him tell his side of the story. And why would he?" Rory asked. "He can't let that kind of information go to print before the trial."

"Then what was the point of having you do the interview?"

"I asked, but he didn't answer," she said. "Maybe he just wanted to intimidate me."

"He was messing with the wrong reporter than, wasn't he?"

She smiled a little. "Yup." She stood back up. "I have to get back to the newsroom. Whatever this was, I have to type it up for tomorrow's paper," she said. "I'll see you at home."


	3. Chapter 3

**Title**: Just Like Anything

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing.

**A/N**: Sorry this one took longer. For anyone who doesn't know, I have a lot of scenes that take place between the mystery stories on my Live Journal. If you would like to know when I post there without checking in, I now have Twitter to use as a notification system. You can follow me at m_redhead.

"_Sons have always a rebellious wish to be disillusioned by that which charmed their fathers." -Aldous Huxley_

**July 3, 2017**

Rory stood in her walk-in closet and stared at her clothes in contemplation. She pulled out a skirt and held it up with a blouse to view the affect. Not caring for the combination, she put both back. Her cell phone started to ring and vibrate from the vanity out in the bedroom, so she went out to answer.

"Hello?" she said, taking a sip of her morning coffee.

"Luke is refusing to serve me," Lorelai said in greeting, the familiar sounds of the busy diner in the background. "I've only had the coffee I drank at home. I need your help."

"How am I supposed to help?"

"Give him the Rory eyes. He can't resist their mystical awe. You hold all the power."

"Mystical awe?"

"Childlike wonder?" Lorelai tried.

Rory protested, "My eyes cannot still look childlike."

"It's still worth a shot."

She sighed and shook her head. "Sorry, but I have other things on my to-do list today. And I already have _my_ coffee. So you're going to have to figure this one out yourself." She took another sip of the hot beverage, glad no one was withholding it from her.

"Oh my god," Lorelai said, incredulously. "Luke just served _Kirk_ coffee and walked right by me, like I'm invisible. You don't know what it's like," she complained. "You have a husband who loves you enough not to deny your one true happiness in life."

"You only get happiness from coffee?" Rory asked with knit brows. "I never realized your life was so sad. And I made coffee myself this morning. Tristan went to work early." Then she said, "Actually, I could use your help. What should I wear to court?"

"Did you get arrested again? I was really hoping that yacht was a onetime thing."

Ignoring her mother, Rory said, "He's testifying again today. And this time it'll be more than just stating his name and occupation. That part often goes without cross-examination."

"What do you usually wear when he testifies?"

"I don't go at all, unless it's for work. Giving testimony is just part of his job," Rory explained. "He doesn't come to the newsroom to hold my hand while I proofread—"

"And here I thought he loved you."

"—I'm taking the morning off just so I can go," she finished.

"Can't you say you're writing an article for work?"

"Ethical," Rory said dryly. "Kyle is back on this case. Other than the run-in with Tristan's dad, I have nothing to do with this one. And I shouldn't be. I'm closer to this one than his average case."

"Hey, that reminds me," Lorelai said. "Mom was talking about that guy the other night during dinner."

"What guy?"

"Tristan's dad, Harrison."

"Oh yeah?" Rory perched on the edge of the vanity and took another sip of coffee. "What did she say?"

"Apparently he's made the Hartford _Gazette_ recently."

"For what?"

"A woman has been seen leaving his house several mornings when his wife and kids are out of town."

"Oh. So it's Page Six news, then?" Rory asked.

"That's the best kind. And Emily had the extra scoop. Rumor has it, last time he was in New York, there was someone staying with him in his fancy hotel."

"The Algonquin?"

"Yeah. Hey, how did you know?"

"I don't know," Rory said with a shrug her mother couldn't see. "It was just the first one to come to mind for some reason." She frowned and tried to remember where and when she'd heard it. Nothing jumped out at her.

"Oh, well anyway," Lorelai went on, "his wife called the hotel, and she got confirmation. He wasn't alone. No one knows if she's confronted him about it though."

"Uh-oh," Rory said, pondering for a moment. "Actually, Eileen saw this coming a while ago. But she isn't really one to talk. I think she's keeping company with someone who isn't her spouse too. She was meeting up with someone at the—." Rory gasped, her eyes wide.

"The what?"

"Uh, New York," she said hastily. "She was meeting someone who probably wasn't her husband."

Lorelai commented, "Classy people, your in-laws."

"Never a dull moment." Rory changed the subject back to the previous topic, "Tristan has been anxious about this for the longest time. When the case went to trial last week, it took them days to agree on jury members." She went on, "He wouldn't let the ADA keep anyone who reads the _Daily News_."

"Why not?"

"Because of me," she said indignantly. "Something about bias in favor of the police. He didn't come out and say it, but I think he meant me specifically."

"But you didn't write about this case."

"I know!"

"To be fair though, I think they prefer people who don't read any news at all." Lorelai said, "You know, you are completely jury duty proof. You'll never have to serve."

"Why not?"

"Think about it. You make the news."

"No, I observe and write about it."

Lorelai continued, "And you're married to a cop. No lawyer is going to trust you on their jury."

"But what if I want to do my civic duty?" Rory asked, frowning in disappointment.

"Too bad. They won't want you."

Rory stood up and returned to the closet. "Well, the jury members they kept don't have media and law enforcement connections, but Tristan still doesn't trust them." She continued her previous task of picking out an outfit.

"Why not?"

"He thinks they're too sympathetic of the defendant's sister." She shook her head. "He might as well be co-counsel and sit at the table with the ADA."

"Isn't he always like that?"

"It's worse this time. He's been coming up with questions for witnesses and he helped prep them." She picked out a grey skirt and white blouse. "So what outfit says supportive wife?"

"Normally I'd say something slutty, but that might not be the right answer this time."

NNNNNNN

From the first row of seats behind the prosecutor's table, Rory sat with Tristan and Mark later that morning. Having saved a seat for Kyle, he sat next to Rory.

Just then, the court clerk announced, "The State calls Detective Tristan DuGrey to the stand."

The judge had already questioned the relationship between the two men who shared a last name, and Harrison had quickly claimed the detective as his son. Although the judge hadn't looked approvingly at the prospect, he hadn't stopped the proceedings.

As Tristan got up and headed for the seat next to the judge, Harrison stood from his place at the defense table and addressed the judge, "Your Honor, my colleague, William Lannaman will be cross-examining the detective today."

The judge nodded. Tristan's brows furrowed as he looked from the associate attorney to his father.

Next to Rory, Mark tilted his head to whisper, "That's how he looked when his dad first showed up at the precinct."

"Upset?" she asked.

He nodded as he kept his eyes ahead of him.

After Tristan was sworn by the court clerk, Jacobs stood and rounded the table. He asked, "You searched Jack Rendell's home on May twenty-sixth, correct?"

Tristan tore his withering stare away from his father to instead focus on the question. "Yes," he answered. He shot a quick glance at the defense table and elaborated, "I executed a search warrant, which I got after two witnesses gave corroborating statements, placing Rendell at the scene."

"What did you find there?"

"Blood stains on his clothes, the ones he was wearing the night Michael Graff was killed. There were also glass shards stuck to his clothes—the same glass found at the crime scene."

"Whose blood was on the clothes?"

"Michael Graff's and Jack Rendell's," Tristan said. "When we questioned Rendell, he had cuts on his arms."

"And where did you find the clothes?"

"Outside in the trash," the detective answered. He quickly went on, "It was in a trash can directly behind the house, by the basement door. So there wasn't an issue of curtilage."

Rory saw Jacobs close his eyes momentarily. Warily, he asked, "Could you please explain to the jury what curtilage is?"

"The area around a building. It has to be close enough to be covered by the search warrant."

Rory's gaze drifted to the defense table, where her father-in-law watched, void of emotion. Occasionally he would write something down on a legal pad sitting in front of him after hearing his son's answers.

Jacobs continued until he was finished with his direct line of questioning, and then took his seat. Rory bit her thumb nail as William Lannaman stood from the defense table. Her heart started to beat faster in anticipation.

The lawyer approached Tristan, stopping at a respectable distance and asked, "Detective, you say the blood stains belong to the defendant and the victim. But whose fingerprints were on the lamp used to kill Michael Graff?"

"Jack Rendell's."

"Were his the only ones?"

"No," Tristan admitted. "There were prints belonging to a third person."

"You don't know whose?"

"No. But it was a store, so they could easily belong to a customer."

"Michael Graff ran a clean shop though, as witnesses have said. He has an assistant who regularly dusts all the merchandise. So isn't it possible, detective, there was a third person at the scene?" Lannaman asked, in a tone indicating how reasonable the idea was.

"Witnesses saw one person entering the store that night," Tristan said. "Jack Rendell."

"Yes or no, detective."

Reluctantly, Tristan answered, "Yes."

"How many entrances to the shop are there?"

"Two. One in the front and one in back."

Addressing the jury, Lannaman said, "The defendant has already stated the back door was open when he got there."

Tristan countered, "He also lied to the police about his whereabouts that night."

The lawyer went on, "With a third person's fingerprints on the murder weapon and a door out of view, there is reasonable doubt about the defendant's guilt." He nodded at the judge curtly. "No more questions."

As Tristan stepped down from the stand, he again glanced toward Harrison unhappily.

"Well, that was . . ." Rory trailed off.

"Anti-climactic," Mark finished for her.

Rory nodded as they made room for Tristan to sit between them.

NNNNNNN

"I don't understand," Tristan said later at lunch. Rory had taken him out for consolation, as though he was a child who'd just lost a soccer game. "I thought Dad was going to tear me down in front of everyone. Doesn't he think I can handle him?"

"I'm sure that's not it," Rory said. "It probably would have been a conflict of interest, don't you think?"

He shrugged slightly. "I guess. But what was the point then?" He'd spent a lot of his spare time before the trial going over his own testimony, ready for whatever Harrison would try. He looked up suddenly. "Did Mom say anything to you about it?"

She frowned. "When?"

"When you went to lunch with her—the same day Dad took my case back in May."

Rory shook her head. "No. She didn't seem to know anything about it. She was only interested in shopping and having a good time in the city. I had no idea they were both here until you told me about your dad. Why would she say anything about your dad's plans? You were the one who said they would never team up."

"I know. But maybe you were right," he said. "It's possibly they're so unhappy with me they set aside their differences to work together."

"Uh, you know, it's weird you admit they could be together," Rory said tentatively.

"Scheming together," he clarified.

"Right, scheming."

Tristan smiled a little. "I just tried to imagine them having a civil conversation, and I couldn't do it." He shook his head. "Even in my mind they end up in a huge screaming match. I wonder why the city didn't implode with them both here."

"They live in the same city," she reminded him. "Hartford hasn't imploded."

"It depends on which part of Hartford you're talking about."

"So, they're definitely not co-conspirators?" she concluded.

"Definitely not. This is all Harry." He added, "Don't call him that, by the way. Most people aren't allowed to."

Rory decided not to voice her suspicions about his parents. She was obviously over-thinking something that was only a coincidence. She continued to think, and then cautiously asked, "Are you disappointed?"

"By what?"

"Today, your cross-examination. You built it up a lot and came prepared to face him. Do you wish he would have tried to make you look incompetent so you could show him you aren't?"

A crease formed between Tristan's eyebrows. "Who would wish for that?"

"Someone who's been mad at his dad for a really long time."

"I didn't want him here at all," he said, still not answering.

"I know. But even though you didn't like the idea, you still expected it. Today was kind of a let-down, since it was so ordinary."

He shook his head and shrugged his indifference. "I don't care."

Rory didn't argue, and instead let her husband turn his attention to the window with his jaw clenched. She was pretty sure he was looking straight through the cars that passed by on the street.

A few minutes later, the waitress brought them their food. As she looked down at the plate in front of her, Rory said, "Oh, I do remember one weird thing your mom said when we had lunch."

"What?" Tristan asked as he handed her the ketchup.

"She thought I ate too much. She said one person couldn't possibly need that much food," Rory said indignantly. "She also said she could keep a secret if I had any odd cravings."

Nonplussed, Tristan commented, "You'll have to excuse her. She doesn't know odd for others is normal for you."

**July 10, 2017**

Harrison finished buttoning his dress shirt and reached to the dresser for a tie. Not liking his selection, he chose a different one. He turned to the mirror to put it on, but Eileen approached and stood between him and the mirror to tie it for him. When she slid the knot up to his neck, she lifted her gaze to meet his and raised a perfectly shaped brow to ask, "Too tight?"

"A little."

"Sorry," she said, loosening it to fit more comfortably. "I thought you liked that." He smirked. She adjusted her silk robe and returned to her place on the hotel bed. As she watched him continue to get ready, she asked, "Do you think you won?"

He shook his head slightly and shrugged. "I don't know. I didn't like the jury."

"When have you ever liked a jury?"

He thought for a moment and conceded, "Never."

Eileen picked up her cup of coffee from the nightstand and cradled it in her hands. "What was the point of all this?" she asked.

"You brought to my attention how unlikely it would be for Tristan to switch sides," he said. "That only leaves one option if I ever expect him to practice law. You're going to have to accept he wants to be a public servant."

"Don't call him a servant."

Harrison continued, "I just have to get him to do it."

"You didn't this time."

"He couldn't prosecute a case he investigated," he said wryly.

"Then what have you accomplished?"

He turned to her and shrugged. "I got his attention. And now I can give him my professional opinion. With any luck, it's going to piss him off."

She glared at him. "Why do you do that to _my_ son, Harry?" she asked. "Do you provoke your Stepford wife's son? I bet you don't."

Harrison waved a dismissive hand. "I'm sticking to what works. But this time I'm going to do it on purpose." He added, "I wouldn't do it if I didn't think he could handle it."

"Well, what a compliment," she said sarcastically, taking a sip of her coffee. "What are you going to do next, now that you're finished here?"

"I'm not finished. But I have to get back to Hartford for the time being. I'm working on another homicide trial."

"Another?" she asked. "Why?"

"Because this isn't what I do. I need more practice. And I'm not an expert of forensics. I never will be, I have to have help." He sat on the end of the bed to put on his cuff links and said, "Are you having lunch with Rory again while you're in town?"

"No. She'll probably be at the courthouse today. Wives who love their husbands stand by them."

"Oh," he said. "I wouldn't have thought you knew anything about that." She narrowed her eyes at him slightly. "I assume you're doing some shopping then."

Evenly, she said, "You assume wrong."

"Really?" Harrison asked, surprised. "The spa?"

"No."

"What are your plans then?"

She gestured toward her bag which was sitting on the floor near the bed. "I'm going to read magazines and run up your room service bill."

"That's all?"

"Yes that's all. Why?"

"It's just uncharacteristic of you," he said. "You don't usually waste a visit to the city."

"I've seen the city."

Harrison bent over to put on his shoes. "Aren't you missing any committee meetings today?"

"Just the horticulture committee," she answered with a shrug. "I blew it off."

He got up and went over to a table that held a breakfast tray. "Since when do you care about plants?" he asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

"I don't. But it meets on Mondays. If I have to hear about my son's life from Emily Gilmore, then I'm at least going to be the first one to hear."

"Oh. So you made the trip to New York just to lounge around the hotel room?"

"No," she said edgily. "That isn't why I came, _Harrison_."

She used his whole name, he was in trouble. He shook it off, he couldn't get in trouble with his ex-wife. He decided to ignore her tone. She'd get over whatever she was suddenly upset about. She picked up her sunglasses and perched them on her nose. With a sharp flick of her finger, she pushed them up to the bridge so they were covering her eyes. She turned to face the window, her lips pursed.

"I'm leaving for Copenhagen in a few days," he informed her, changing the subject. "Maybe I'll send you a postcard."

"Don't bother, I've seen it." She muttered, "Just like I've seen New York."

He lifted his eyes to the ceiling. Against his better judgment, he asked, "Is there a problem?"

She turned back to face him. "Not at all. Go ahead and jet off to wherever you have to go next—just like you always do."

He put his cup down and crossed his arms. "Why are you hiding behind your sunglasses?" He should have seen this coming, they'd had their fair share of irrational arguments in the past. It'd taken them a few months, but they'd managed to return to their old ways.

She took the glasses off, so he could see she was glaring at him. "I am not hiding," she said, raising her chin. "I hope you enjoy yourself in Copenhagen."

"You do realize it's for business and not a vacation, don't you?"

"You aren't on vacation now, but you've managed to enjoy yourself—if I'm an accurate judge," she said. "Think about why that was."

It'd been the company, he thought with little consideration. He blinked. Did she want to go along on his business trip? She'd never gone with him when they were married. She _had_ traveled to New York on her own though, he'd only provided the lodging information. If she wanted to get herself to Europe, he wasn't opposed. It wasn't as though she had any trouble occupying herself during the day.

Testing the waters, he slowly said, "The concierge will have a key waiting at the front desk."

Eileen picked up one of her magazines and started to flip through its glossy pages. In a decidedly friendlier tone, she said, "Copenhagen sounds lovely."

NNNNNNN

The cab Rory and Kyle were sharing stopped in front of the courthouse in downtown Manhattan. Kyle paid the cab driver and they both got out. Rory shielded her eyes from the sun so she could see the people on the steps. She found her husband with his partner, standing near a column at the top of the steps. She walked up to join them, Kyle at her heels.

After greeting them, Stevenson commented to Tristan, "Jacobs didn't use that witness we talked to—one of the shop keepers down the street."

"He was a bad witness," Tristan said.

"But he knew all about Graff's relationship with the Rendell's."

"He's also on parole and has a history of drug use. We got some information from him, which led to more evidence to get the charges to stick," he said. "But we decided not to use him on the witness stand."

"Who is 'we'?" Mark asked.

"Me and Jacobs." Tristan added, "It was just some preliminary trial stuff."

"Sure," Mark said, shoving his hands in his pockets and shifting his gaze out to all the people congregated on the courthouse steps. A few were eating their lunch, while others read. Some were there for the same reason as the detectives, waiting to hear the verdict of a trial.

As Rory looked out at the people, she saw Harrison DuGrey walking up the courthouse stairs. He gave the foursome a glance without a gesture of acknowledgement. When he had disappeared inside the courthouse, Mark turned back to Tristan to ask, "How's your scar doing?"

"What?"

Mark pointed to his forehead. "Your scar, I thought it might burn when your dad is near. You know—only one of you can live while the other survives."

Kyle laughed lightly in appreciation. "Harry Potter."

Glowering, Tristan said, "I got that. And don't call me Harry." He pulled out his phone and made a call. When he finished, he told them, "The judge is ready. Let's go."

Rory and Kyle followed the detectives inside and found seats together in the courtroom. Once situated, Kyle reminisced to his co-worker. "There was this one trial I was reporting on," he started, "and in the middle, DuGrey sauntered into the courtroom like he owned the place and went right up to the prosecutor with some incriminating evidence he'd just found. They had to take a recess, but in the end, it helped win the case."

"Theatrical," she commented.

Kyle shook his head. "It was awesome."

Rory tilted her head toward her husband's. "I don't want to freak you out or anything, but Kyle might have a poster of you in his bedroom. Right next to the Flash."

"As long as he doesn't kiss it at night," Tristan said.

The bailiff entered with the judge then. "All rise."

Collectively, everyone in the courtroom followed the order. After the judge took his place, everyone sat back down. "Has the jury reached a verdict?" he asked.

From her seat next to Tristan, Rory anxiously intertwined her fingers with his. With their palms pressed together, she rested her hands on her lap. The foreman stood to tell the judge, "After much deliberation, we could not agree on a verdict."

Tristan released a breath, and his head fell to the side. With her free hand, Rory rubbed his arm. Jacobs voiced his plans to seek a new trial. They sat through the rest of the proceedings until it was time to stand again as the judge got down from the bench.

As Kyle scribbled into his notebook, he glanced at the prosecutor and told Rory, "He isn't going anywhere. I need to get a quote from your father-in-law before he gets away."

"Good luck," Rory told him as he departed.

As the courtroom emptied around them, she remained with the disappointed detectives. When Jacobs turned to face them, he consolingly told Tristan, "We didn't prove Rendell did it, but your dad didn't find enough reasonable doubt, either."

"That's because this isn't what he does," Tristan said.

Jacobs' brows moved closer together. "What?"

"Homicide trials aren't what he does for a living. If it were, he would have persuaded the jury."

The lawyer crossed his arms. "I've gone up against a lot of defense attorneys, and he wasn't tougher than any of the others."

With a scowl, Tristan argued, "He's much better than other lawyers. He spends hours on litigation and always knows what legal precedence will work best before he even looks it up."

"I'm calling BS on that second one."

Mark inclined his head so only Rory could hear, "I feel like we're on a playground. Except Jacobs should list some ways his dad is better."

Dryly, Jacobs asked, "Don't you want to mention something about attending Yale? I'm sure his class rank was impressive."

Tristan shook his head a little before turning to go. The other three watched him exit the courtroom. Rory hung back, giving him a minute alone.

Jacobs unfolded his arms and turned to collect the paperwork from his table. He shook his head and commented, "That has to be the weirdest hero-worship I've ever seen."

NNNNNNN

Tristan walked away from the courtroom and was headed outside, when a familiar voice called his name. He turned in time to see his father walk away from the last reporter—Kyle—and approach him.

Once upon a time, he had cared about his father's acceptance and approval. He hadn't known he'd wanted it until it was denied. But at this moment, he didn't care. He knew his father wouldn't be happy with any of his decisions. It was his own life, and Harrison hated that. Tristan only wanted to know why he came to New York for a run of the mill trial. He wanted to know why he passed on a perfectly good opportunity to embarrass him, especially given how much the proud man was embarrassed by Tristan.

"What?" he said when his father reached him, his demeanor foreboding. The older man wasn't as tall as his son, he hadn't been in years. Tristan took small pleasure in having to look down to meet Harrison's eyes.

"I was wrong. I'm sorry."

Tristan had never known Harrison to apologize for anything. Suspiciously, he asked, "Wrong about what?"

"You," his father answered. "You're an efficient investigator and you handle yourself well in front of a judge and jury. You're obviously better suited for that side of the witness stand."

Tristan's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"I should have just trusted you to know what you are—or not—capable of." Without another word, Harrison walked away, heading for the exit Tristan had been seeking.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title**: Just Like Anything

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing.

**A/N**: Thank you for reading and reviewing! There will be a few more scenes (five, I believe) on my LJ before the main event, It's Five O'clock Somewhere. See you there!

"_A man's desire for a son is usually nothing but the wish to duplicate himself in order that such a remarkable pattern may not be lost to the world." -Helen Rowland_

**July 12, 2017**

Greg Jacobs rearranged the papers on his desk and picked up a file he was planning to focus on that morning. Before he become engrossed in his task, there was a knock at the door. "Come in."

Harrison DuGrey entered the office, and unbuttoned his suit jacket before he had a seat in front of the desk. He took his time looking around the office, his eyes straying on the diplomas. Jacobs half expected him to make a caddy remark, the way his son often did. When his gaze landed on the prosecutor, Harrison said, "I understand you wish for a new trial."

"Yes," Jacobs said. "The DA and I agree there's enough evidence to prove your client's guilt."

Harrison nodded once. "My schedule won't allow me to continue with that case, so my colleague William Lannaman will be taking over." He passed a business card with the other man's name on it across the desk.

"All right," Jacobs said, glancing at the information and laying it on top of the appropriate file. "I'm a little disappointed you won't be sticking around. I was impressed with how you put your son in his place. I usually have difficulty accomplishing that."

Harrison's brows lowered accusingly. "You would like to 'put him in his place'?"

The man's tone made Jacobs guilty, as though he'd just said the wrong thing to the wrong person. "Well, not put him in his place, so much as keep him in the one he's in. He's, uh, never liked leaving the evidence with me after he's found it."

Familiar blue eyes flashed at him. He continued. "We're nuisances to each other—I'm doing my job, and he tries to do it too. He's made it clear he doesn't need me."

"Of course he doesn't," Harrison said with a scoff. He glanced behind the younger man, to the thick legal tomes that lined the shelves. "Anything you can do he can do."

"Do you want to add 'better' at the end of that sentence?" Jacobs asked ruefully. "He usually does."

"That has yet to be seen," the man said thoughtfully. "But probably."

Greg repressed an eye roll. He wasn't sure if the easy pluck of the younger DuGrey was inherited or learned, but the apple hadn't traveled far. "You wouldn't guess it after seeing the two of you together, but he thinks very highly of you. He tried to convince me you're the best lawyer there is."

"And as my son, what should that make him?" Harrison asked without disputing the compliment. He sounded impatient and frustrated to not have the answer. "He and I have been playing chicken for a long time." He reached inside his jacket pocket again and pulled out a white envelope. He handed it over to the younger man. "I need you to give that to him."

Jacobs reached across to take the envelope. He frowned down at it and asked, "What is it?"

"It's his, he can have it," Harrison said, in an unsatisfactory answer.

"Why don't you give it to him yourself?"

"I'm due back in Hartford this afternoon. I want him to get it tomorrow," he said. "I'm sure he's willing to wait until I die, but I want to see what will happen next."

Greg sat the envelope on the corner of his desk and put a note for himself on top. He considered what he'd been told about a monetary incentive, no doubt involved in their game of chicken. "Are you swerving?"

Eying him steadily, Harrison countered, "I will if he does."

A cell phone buzzed and he retrieved it from his pocket. "Hello?" After listening, he answered, "No, I didn't. Why?" He frowned and glanced down at his platinum wristwatch. "Keep an eye on things, I'll be right there." Harrison pocketed phone back and stood. "I have to go. Don't forget, tomorrow."

NNNNNNN

Meanwhile, Rory followed Jack Rendell into the living room at the front of his house. Dark green drapes protected the room from the harsh sunlight. The old floorboards creaked under their feet, indicating the house's advanced age.

"I saw you at the trial," Jack said conversationally. "You were sitting with that guy who arrested me."

"Oh, uh, I wasn't _with_ him so much as sitting next to him. We know each other—from work."

"Did you know it was his dad that represented me?"

"I did hear something about that," she said vaguely. She glanced side to side. "Speaking of your lawyer, is he on his way?"

"No. Somebody from the paper called to set up an interview and the trial is over. I didn't think he still had to be around."

"Well, okay," she said slowly. "I guess we can start then."

Jack sat down on the couch and she followed, sitting adjacent to him in a rocking chair.

"What are you planning to do until the new trial?" she asked.

"My sister's going to move in here with me," he answered. "So I'll be helping her with that as soon as I have a room ready for her."

Rory began writing his response and then asked her next question. When he was mid-way through his answer, there was a knock on the front door. Jack excused himself and went to the foyer. When he returned a moment later, he followed his attorney.

"What's going on here?" Harrison asked, giving a hard look from Rory to his client.

She lifted her gaze to her father-in-law and answered, "It's an interview. The paper set it up this time. I asked Kyle to switch with me."

"You shouldn't be here alone."

Her brows knit together. "What?"

He glanced over at Jack and hastily told him, "You shouldn't be doing interviews without a lawyer present."

"Have a seat, counselor," she told him in an overly friendly tone, gesturing toward the couch.

Harrison shook his head. "I'm afraid I have to put an end to this interview. I'm leaving for Hartford." He reached into his pocket and pulled out two business cards.

"You're just leaving? Today?" she asked. "That's convenient. Do you even know what tomorrow is?"

"I'm well aware," he answered. "If you have more questions, talk to my colleague." He handed a card to each of them.

Rory read the information. "You aren't continuing with the case?"

"No." He turned to the other man. "Mr. Lannaman is taking over. Don't worry about the cost, he will be taking your case pro bono, like I did."

Under her breath, Rory said, "Gosh you're thoughtful."

Harrison ignored her comment. "I'll escort you out."

Rather than get upset by the turn of events, she put her notepad and pen back in her bag and stood from the rocking chair. She followed him to the front door, a wave of summer heat hitting her as she walked down the steps to the sidewalk.

A few pedestrians strolled by them as Harrison asked from behind her, "Do you always conduct interviews with possible murderers?"

She turned to face her father-in-law, squinting from the bright sunlight. She frowned at him in disbelief. "Do you think he did it?"

"That isn't for me to decide. I don't know who did it." Then he added, "But off the record, the police are usually right."

"What?"

"They're usually right about who committed the crime. Even if they make mistakes."

"Tristan works hard," she said incredulously. "Why would you come and try to let a criminal walk free?"

Impatiently, he said, "Everyone in this country gets a fair trial—"

"Except your own son."

"—He still has the burden of proof," Harrison finished. "He knows that. And surely you do too, being a member of the press. Your job is make sure institutions are held accountable as much as mine is. Just because he knows the book and goes by it doesn't mean everyone does."

Rory couldn't argue. As she'd pointed out to her husband, it was what she'd threatened him with to get him to talk to her. She folded her arms across her body in a defiant stance. "He thought you were going to discredit him and find his mistakes."

"He wouldn't have made any mistakes," Harrison countered with a scowl, to her surprise. "And what good would it have done to disgrace him? If I tarnished his good name, I'd be doing same to my own."

"Oh, well—," she tried. She hadn't thought of that. Tristan apparently hadn't either. "Couldn't you have at least let him know you weren't going to cross-examined him? He was ready for _you_."

Harrison's eyes sparkled in the sunlight. "Noted."

"Is it your life's goal to disappoint him every chance you get? Because if it is, congratulations. You're succeeding." She quickly pointed a finger at him, adding, "And don't call him the disappointment. There's no shame in what he does, even if you—and Eileen—disagree."

"If he wants to enforce the law, then he can."

"What?"

He tilted his head and smugly asked, "Surprised?"

She frowned in silent confirmation.

"I guess you didn't get the message. I'm over it, and his mother was advised to do the same."

Finished with the conversation, he turned to go. Rory watched him head toward a man with dark black hair standing on the sidewalk, next to a parked sedan. She hadn't noticed him before, but he'd apparently been watching their exchange. Her curiosity got the better of her, and before her father-in-law got too far away, she spoke up, "Do you think the rumors are true?"

He stopped and faced her again. "What rumors?"

"About your ex-wife," Rory said, thinking fast. Boldly, she continued, "She might be having an affair."

The man beyond them looked over at Rory, hearing her declaration.

He considered her for a moment. "I hadn't heard those rumors."

"It's more of a theory I have, actually. Based on some—likely circumstantial—evidence."

"So you're _starting_ the rumor then?" he concluded. "You and she have that in common."

"I'm not sure I'd put it like that," she said. "But do you think it's true?"

He lifted a shoulder, indifferent. "Not everyone can handle her, and she loses interest quickly."

"That's what Tristan said. I guess that's where he gets it from," Rory said. "She told me she's having the best sex of her life."

A grin pulled at the corner Harrison's lips and he got a gleam in his eye. Rory gasped, not only at its uncanny familiarity, but at the knowledge of what it usually indicated. Self-satisfaction.

The moment past and he composed himself. "Good for Eileen." He turned his back on her then to continue on his way.

Rory stopped herself from shuddering. "It doesn't mean anything. Lots of people make that face," she muttered, and then shook her head. "He is not going to want to hear this."

NNNNNNN

Rory held down a flap of wrapping paper and picked up the tape dispenser that sat on the floor next to her. She had to shift her elbow to keep the paper in place as she tore off three pieces of tape. She carefully secured the end of the package, and jumped when doorknob rattled.

"I'm in here," she called out as she turned the box around so she could tape down its edges.

"Why is the door locked?" Tristan asked, his voice muffled by the door. "Are you naked?"

"No," she said with a smile.

"Why not?"

Rory laughed a little. "Because I don't walk around naked when I'm home alone."

"It's your right. And you're not alone anymore, so what can we do about that?" he asked, jiggling the doorknob again. "Let me in."

"Hold on, I'm almost finished," she said, cutting off a piece of ribbon to tie neatly around the box.

"Finished with what?"

"Well, think about what today's date is, and then think about what day follows. It's an annual event that traditionally includes some sort of celebration. There's usually cake if I have anything to say about it."

"You usually have a lot to say about it."

"If you don't want cake at the precinct, I'll just have it sent to the newsroom instead. No one at the _Daily News_ would ever turn it down." She added, "One way or another, someone is getting cake tomorrow."

"Could you at least lay off the candles?" he asked. "Please?"

"Don't tell me what to do!" she said indignantly. She glanced around the room, in a quick search for the perfect hiding place. Finding it, she hustled across the room and opened Tristan's bottom dresser drawer. She lifted a stack of folded t-shirts and put the present under them. She quietly closed the drawer and got up to go unlock the door.

Tristan came in and stood at the entrance with his arms akimbo, brows lowered in concentration as his eyes roamed around the room. He took off his jacket and tossed it on the bed, then went over to Rory's nightstand.

"Stop looking for your present, you'll get it tomorrow," she said accusingly as she picked up her roll of cheerful wrapping paper and the tape dispenser from the floor.

He didn't heed her request, and instead riffled through a drawer full of odds and ends.

Rory put her hands on her hips. "You aren't going to find it."

He tore his eyes from the nightstand to give her a patronizing look. He deadpanned, "This isn't the first room I've ever searched."

"That's not fair."

"Life seldom is." He moved from the nightstand to her dresser and continued to search methodically. He pulled out a pair of lacy red panties. "Is this my present?"

"No."

"Can it be?"

She was still frowning at him, but grudgingly answered. "Fine." She lowered her arms, instead folding them across her body. "I saw your dad today."

"Nice try," Tristan said, not looking up. "But you can't distract me."

"I really did. Kyle scheduled an interview with his client, but I asked if I could do it in his place."

Tristan let the shorts in his hands fall back into the drawer. He turned. "What?"

She shrugged slightly. "He made you really upset, so I felt like a confrontation. He wasn't there though, not at first." Rory took a seat on the end of the bed. "That other lawyer—the one who questioned you—he's going to stand in for the next trial."

Tristan didn't respond. He continued to stare at his wife, waiting for more.

Slowly, she admitted to the exchange she had with his father. "I think he was insulted to even suggest you might make any mistakes," she said.

Tristan turned back to the dresser to continue his task. "He told me I was efficient at the various aspects of my job," he said flatly.

"What? When did he say that?"

"After the verdict was read. I ran into him out in the hall."

Rory sat in silent contemplation, and looked down at her hands. After a moment, she lifted her head. "So maybe that's it then. Maybe he just wanted to see what you can do, and is ready to accept it now." Remembering what Harrison told her that day, she quickly added, "He's okay with you being in law enforcement. He said he's over it."

"Maybe so," Tristan muttered, checking behind a photo of them from their wedding day. "Was that all he said?"

"Uh, yeah," she answered hastily. "Pretty much." She didn't stop Tristan as he silently searched the drawers of her vanity. She wondered if it was worth it to tell him what she suspected of his parents. "Speaking of your dad," she started.

"Are we still talking about him?"

"A little. I talked to Mom the other day, and she heard some Hartford gossip from Grandma," Rory said. "Your dad made the gossip page of the _Gazette_. A woman has been keeping him company on nights when his wife is away."

"And?"

"And, that's all," Rory said. "What do you think that's about?"

Tristan lifted a shoulder. "I guess he's got someone on the side again. That doesn't surprise you, does it?" he asked. "You know both of my parents remarried immediately after their divorce was final."

"Sure."

"So clandestine meetings wouldn't be new. I wonder how young the woman is this time. Probably younger than me."

Carefully, she said, "You know, I was thinking. Your mom gets married a lot, right?"

Tristan went over to his own chest of drawers and opened the top one. "Yup. It's what she does for a living. Normal people have jobs."

"But it was only after she was with to your dad for years. She was his wife for half her married life. What made her become a serial bride?"

"I don't know," he answered. "Why?"

"It just doesn't make sense. It wasn't _always_ what she did."

He argued, "It makes sense if you look at it the right way. Dad had an airtight prenup, so now she's proving she can amass a fortune through less intelligent husbands." He moved to the next drawer.

"See? It's still about your dad. Maybe she never got over him."

Tristan stopped dead in his tracks. He turned to stare at her. "That's a romantic theory," he said dryly. "It's wildly inaccurate, and naïve—but romantic."

"Why would a person spend so much time and energy hating someone though?" Rory asked. "Could it be she loved him, but just hates what happened?"

"No, she hates _him_."

"You keep saying that, but why hasn't she moved on?"

"She has. Four times. Three more divorces and a death. I don't even want to sniff around to find out definitively what happened with the death. I'm not convinced she didn't do it."

"You said she only hated the one husband enough for that."

"True. I'm surprised she never burned down the house while Dad slept inside."

"She still considers it _her_ house. She wouldn't set it on fire."

"That's a good point," he conceded. "She thinks it's her house because she's possessive. In her mind, what was once hers will always be hers."

"Maybe that includes your dad."

"Could be." Tristan shook his head. "But that doesn't make it love." He turned back to his dresser and moved to the next drawer.

"We are celebrating your birth tomorrow. You know they're responsible for that, they did make you."

"Ugh, don't be gross."

"Were you thinking it was an immaculate conception?"

"You probably mean the virgin birth—common mistake. And yes," he said. "Now stop talking about my parents, you're ruining my birthday . . . Eve. Is that a thing?" He knelt down and opened the last drawer.

"Of course it's a thing." Noticing his progress, she sprang up from the bed and almost jumped on her husband. "Hey, let's go downstairs and get something to eat, I'm starving. Do you feel like Chinese tonight? I could really go for some crab rangoon."

"Ooh, I'm getting warmer," he said with a smile. He closed the drawer and moved to the bottom one.

"No, I'm just super hungry. Come on, I'll race you down to the kitchen."

He shook his head down at his t-shirts and laughed a little. "I wish all searches were this easy. I should have done like Sherlock and set off the smoke detector. You would have looked right at the drawer."

"Your birthday present isn't the most important thing in the room," she argued.

He lifted the shirts and found the wrapped package sitting beneath them. He picked it up and smiled at her in triumph. "I like that strategy, right under my nose."

"You can't open it until tomorrow."

He shook the box next to his ear. "What is it? Is it a tie?"

"No. You'll find out tomorrow. If I was any clearer, I'd have curly red hair and I'd be singing about the sun coming out—_tomorrow_." She tried to take the box from him, but he held it out of reach.

He backed up to the end of the bed to sit where she'd been a moment earlier. She went with him, straddling his legs. She started kissing his neck and he lowered his arm. "This might work," he said, letting her take the gift away so his hands were free to circle her waist.

**July 13, 2017**

Greg walked off the elevator at the third floor of the twenty-first precinct. He proceeded to the squad room and made a beeline for the blonde detective's desk. DuGrey was accepting a cupcake from a messenger. The young man took out a lighter and held it up to the single candle at the top of the treat.

"You really don't have to light this one," Tristan said.

"I have strict instructions that say otherwise." After the candle was lit, Tristan blew out the flame and removed the icing covered candle, adding it to a stack piled up on his desk. "See you later," he said as the messenger made his leave. He looked around at the desks of his fellow detectives, and saw either a cupcake on each desk or evidence that one had been eaten. He peeled back the lining and took a bite. It was red velvet, and from the looks of things, a variety of other flavors and icing combinations had preceded it.

When he saw Jacobs, he swallowed and asked, "Did you want this?"

Jacobs shook his head and wrinkled his nose. "No thanks."

DuGrey waved a hand. "There'll be another one in fifteen minutes, stick around if you want it. I think they'll keep coming until there are thirty-three, but I'll have to count the candles at the end of the day."

Greg reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the envelope he was to deliver that day and handed it over.

"Aw, you shouldn't have," DuGrey said with a smirk.

"I didn't. I'm just another messenger bearing gifts."

Tristan shoved the last of his cupcake in his mouth and wiped his hands on his pants before taking the envelope. He slid his thumb along the opening and pulled out a document that was a few pages stapled together. He unfolded them and grabbed his reading glasses from the desk so he could scan the top sheet.

As he read, he started to frown. His eyes quickly moved back and forth and he flipped ahead to the last page.

Jacobs, feeling nosey, leaned in and read the seven digit figure at the bottom of the page. "Holy crap."

Tristan reflexively jerked the papers out of eyeshot and glared at him. "Where did you get this?" he demanded.

"Your dad. He stopped by yesterday."

"And you're just having private meetings behind my back?" he asked with a scowl.

"No, he's a fellow attorney and he was telling me his colleague will take over for the new trial," Jacobs explained.

"So that's it then?" Tristan asked, miffed. "He's finished with the whole thing? He's giving up, just like that?"

"What?" Greg asked, brows furrowed.

Tristan tried handing the papers back. "I don't want this."

Greg held his palms up and took a step back. "It's not mine, I don't want it."

"I didn't do what I'm supposed to do to get this. I'm not the prodigal son."

"It's out of my hands," he said. "He wanted you to have it, today specifically. I guess you were wrong, he does remember your birthday."

The now hot-headed detective headed for the exit. On his way out, he passed his partner, who turned to watch him before approaching the assistant district attorney.

"I feel like I just missed a good storm off," Stevenson commented. "He didn't like the last cupcake?"

"Something like that."

NNNNNNN

Tristan entered the apartment later that evening. Rory was sitting at the end of the dining room table, reading a magazine. There was a card sitting on the table next to the present he'd found the night before. She looked up and greeted him with a big smile. "Happy birthday."

"You told me that already." He dropped his keys in a basket next to the door and went over to the table.

"I know, but it's still your birthday. " She smiled wider and asked, "Did anything special happen at work today?"

He stared for a second, speechless. Her smile wavered for a moment, and then he blinked. "Cupcakes," he said. "You kept the whole precinct happy all day."

She grinned again. "Everyone at the newsroom enjoyed your birthday as well. I ordered us sheet cake. Why should the twenty-first precinct be the only place of business to celebrate the day of your birth?"

Tristan nodded slightly and smiled tightly. "Good question."

"Half the newsroom was on a sugar high by noon." Rory crossed her arms on the table leaned forward. "Is something wrong?"

"No," he answered, shaking his head. "Thanks for the cupcakes. I especially liked the very last one."

"To grow on," she said, pleased with herself.

He pulled out the chair next to her, but Rory held her hand out. "Don't sit down, we're going to dinner. And then we have to get to Park Avenue and Thirty-Fourth Street."

"What for?"

Her shoulders dropped. "To see Manhattanhenge."

"Didn't we just see that?"

"That was the one during sunrise, this one is sun_set_." She added, "It's not every day the sun aligns with the east-west streets of Manhattan, and it happens on your birthday, so it's extra special. You're very lucky. We can't miss it."

Tristan pointed down to his gift. "If that's a book, we should pretty much call it _your_ birthday."

Rory smiled as she got up and started for the hallway. "I'll be right back. I need shoes."

He strolled down the hall behind her, letting her get to the top of the stairs as he stopped at his desk. He took the envelope he'd received that day and opened the bottom drawer. Without pausing to look at its contents, he stuck it in the drawer and shut it.

Acceptance, if that's what it was, didn't feel the way Tristan thought it would. Albeit, he wouldn't have believed the day would ever come. It was as surreal as the day he left his father's house years earlier, set on doing whatever he wanted with his life. But Harrison was no longer mad about it. He'd just given up on a lost cause.

_**Fin**_


End file.
